In the Company of Killers by Bryan Christy (ebook reader for pc and android .txt) 📕

“The Philippines and China claim Dangerous Ground. The Philippines is a US ally. One cannot afford a conflict here. One can afford peace. I would like . . . Perseus Group would like to offer China a new weapon, based on the latest technology. A demonstration of this capacity is my gift to China.”

A numeric code appeared on the center monitor. “Admiral Meng”—Krieger gestured to the keyboard—“the future is yours to deliver. You need only press the enter key.”

Meng tilted his head slightly, his expression curious.

“You cannot destroy a ship that does not exist,” Krieger encouraged. “You will be dividing by zero.”

Krieger waited.

Meng offered no indication of what he was thinking. His latest orders, Krieger knew, were to expand China’s occupation of reefs and islands within Dangerous Ground. The United States challenged China’s claim to the waters, diving her bombers at China’s new Spratly Island airbases, slicing the waters with its ships, and interfering with China’s secret efforts to map an internal sea-lane navigable by its nuclear-powered ballistic submarines. If China’s boomers were able to sail Dangerous Ground, then a third of the world’s population would come within reach of China’s ballistic missiles.

Krieger spoke again. “The ship’s own navigational error put it here, Admiral. That error will compound throughout the ship’s systems in a manner adverse to survival. The fault will lie entirely with the US Navy. Complete mortality. Untraceable. The latest in a string of accidents in these waters . . .” Krieger added a phrase he had been practicing. “Yi chang meiyou xiaoyan de zhanzheng,” he said. War without smoke.

Still Meng did not react. He stood staring out at open water. Krieger believed he knew what Meng was thinking. So many unexplained American naval accidents recently. Collisions, systems failures, even groundings. Blame for the accidents had been widely distributed. First, to the other party—drunk Jordanian tanker captain, a broken Vietnamese drive shaft. Then, to those on the bridge of America’s warships—poor seamanship in the channel, failure to man all stations, dereliction of duty to train operators. Analyses of the ships’ electronic bridge and navigation systems and log data found nothing wrong with the computer systems.

Meng would be asking himself whether the rumors could be true: that America’s South China Sea problems had not been accidents.

Meng turned to Krieger. “You are betraying your country,” he said in perfect English.

“I have served my country honorably, Admiral,” Krieger replied. “This is business.”

“They were your client,” Meng said, glancing down at the keyboard.

And they might be again, Krieger thought.

“Contracts—like civilizations—end, Admiral. I deal in the future. The future, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is with China.”

Meng stepped away from the keyboard. He held Krieger’s eyes. “Then as a businessman you will understand, China requires that you demonstrate the capability of your product.”

Krieger had hoped Meng would be unable to resist the opportunity to wield the power he offered, but he was fully prepared for the alternative. Hard decisions were what Kriegers made. He stepped to the keyboard and pressed enter.

A flock of small, dark birds hovered above the Shiloh. The birds were quick and maneuvered in perfect harmony. Meng watched them for several moments, then whispered something quietly under his breath. “That species does not fly so far out to sea.”

THE UNDERTAKER’S SON

Washington, DC

Klay walked to the Gray Pigeon. He’d had the dream again about his mother in her red coat. For the first time since he was a boy, she had paused, then turned and looked down at him struggling with his untied shoelace. “What is it, Tommy?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He pulled on the bar’s door, but to his surprise the Pigeon’s front door was locked. A cocktail napkin was taped to the door’s glass. “Closed,” it said. It was mid-afternoon. He peered inside. The lights were off. There were half-empty glasses and beer bottles on the bar. In all the years he had been coming to the Pigeon, Billy had never closed the bar during business hours. Not during the city’s worst blizzards or when a water pipe upstairs had burst. Maybe he was sick. Klay had spent more time with Billy than just about anyone he knew, and he didn’t have a phone number for him. Didn’t have a phone number for the bar, either. When he wanted a drink, he walked over.

He looked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol Building. He didn’t want to drink at home today. Somehow it felt disrespectful to Billy to drink anywhere else on the House side, so he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked north to Massachusetts Avenue.

Everything was sunnier on the Senate side. The restaurants were more sophisticated. The bodegas were called groceries, and had aisles wide enough for two people. The bagel place made their bagels in a brick oven, rather than his usual, a serve-yourself in Saran wrap with lumped cream cheese already inside. Why did he live the way he did? It was only a few more blocks to walk to these places. He should come up here more often, he told himself, change his habits. He’d do it tomorrow, he decided, order himself a cappuccino and a poppy seed bagel warm out of the oven.

He chose a bar in the middle of the block with a brick patio out front that was as big as the entire Pigeon. In the summers, the patio filled with loud congressional staffers holding chardonnay and vodka tonics in plastic cups. “One of them goddamn fern bars,” Billy called it. Sebastian’s was bright inside with an exposed brick wall and little glass flower vases on the tables. It was early enough that only one table was occupied, five young men in college sweatshirts and designer jeans drinking craft beer and watching the game. Klay took a seat at the bar. The bartender, older than Klay had expected for this place, set a napkin in front of him and placed a glass of iced water on top of it. “What can I get you?”

“Booker’s. Neat,” Klay said.

The bartender shook his head. “Sorry. No